


The Most Powerful Charm of Your Beauty

by ladyblahblah



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genderswap femmeslash.  Transporter accidents aren't <em>all</em> bad . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Powerful Charm of Your Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt A Mod Day over at [](http://st-respect.livejournal.com/profile)[**st_respect**](http://st-respect.livejournal.com/) , prompt being "genderswap girl!Bones/girl!Chekov".  Oh dear.  A very early attempt at femmeslash here, folks, so be kind.  Apologies for any incorrect pronouns. XD  Apologies as well for any incorrect Russian; blame Google Translator for that.

 

 

Late-night philosophical and theoretical discussions are _de rigueur_ for any well-rounded college student. Leonard McCoy had certainly taken part in his fair share in his pre-med days, usually aided by a good dose of alcohol and occasionally a few not-exactly-legal substances. He had met his wife at one of those late-night gab sessions, as a matter of fact; they had shared a bottle of red wine and debated medical ethics and wound up tumbling gracelessly into his bed and staying there for the next three days. The point being, he had been around the block a few times by the time he entered Starfleet Academy. He wasn't one of those fresh-faced cadets that filled the shuttle, and he'd had his fill of discussions that seemed deep at the time but were actually, in retrospect, ass-stupid.

And yet, the most profound discussion of his life happened during his second semester in San Francisco, when Jim Kirk had managed to get him to stop rattling off the inherent health hazards long enough to get him thoroughly and completely stoned.

"The thing about transporters is . . . is . . ." Jim had scrambled for his train of thought through the thick cloud of smoke, and snapped his fingers when he finally found it again. "Atoms! You're all scattered into atoms, right? And then _whoooosh_ , they're shot to the new location, and reassembled, and so what's to stop them from being reassembled just . . . a little bit differently? If you could figure out how to tweak it, you could shave off a few decades of wear and tear. Take care of those crow's feet there," he'd snickered, poking at McCoy's eyes and cackling when the doctor irritably batted his hand away.

"Or, or, and okay, this is only theoretical, but . . . what if you rearranged _your_ atoms--" he'd held up a hand, "--and, like, a . . . a _frog's_ atoms, or something--" another hand, "--and, like . . ." He brought his fingers together, interlocking them. "Bam. Frogman Bones. Shit, you could join the swim team!" He had started laughing madly, then.

"What?"

"Your . . . your nose . . ."

"What about my nose?" McCoy had demanded, reaching up to make sure it was, in fact, still there.

"It's like . . . oh god," Jim had said, wheezing for breath, "it's like, _right_ in the middle of your face!"

He'd gone on laughing for about five minutes, then settled and began to talk about building an army of frogpeople using transporters and taking over the world.

And yes, _yes_ , McCoy realized when he woke up the next morning with a pounding head and an annoyingly chipper roommate that it had all been nonsense. But the drug-induced paranoia wouldn't leave him; he kept imagining standing on a planet's surface and having a big ol' bullfrog jump on his chest just as he was beamed up, and when he rematerialized he'd have webbed fingers and the ability to flick Jim in the back of his head with his tongue and . . .

He'd never trusted transporters after that.

McCoy lived with the idea that he was risking his identity, if not his very life, every time he stepped onto the transporter pad. He's seen far too many accidents to be able to let go of his death grip on paranoia. He had no desire to have his consciousness swapped with someone else's, or turn up as his own evil twin, or beam up in entirely the wrong order, all of which had happened in the first three months of their tour. If he'd had his way he'd use a shuttlecraft every time he had to leave the ship. Of course, words like "waste of resources" and "time constraints" and "superstitious Luddite" had been thrown around, so in the end he'd manned up and just accepted the constant gnawing fear in his gut anytime he had to beam out.

McCoy wondered absently if this would finally put that fear to rest, or only make it worse than ever. He wasn't sure; he hadn't been anywhere near a transporter in over three months.

Correction. _She_ hadn't.

There had been all sorts of comforting words, assurances that the best minds in Starfleet—most of them right there on his ship—were working on the problem. _The problem_ , she thought with a sneer, the same way they’d referred to the hiccup in the replicators that made them only produce chocolate milk. This was more than a _problem_. This was a catastrophe; it was madness; it was a goddamned sci-fi holovid.

Jim told her to relax and enjoy the benefits while she could, the bastard. Of course, _Jim_ had taken to this whole thing like a duck to water. Even started wearing the female uniform, which was something that McCoy absolutely refused to do. It had taken him long enough just to adjust to his new center of gravity; he had no desire to attempt to work out the mechanics of sitting in one of those non-existent skirts without flashing his entire damned staff. Let Jim go around singing ‘I Enjoy Being a Girl’; McCoy had a bit more dignity.

Besides, she couldn’t really work out any _benefits_ worth mentioning. As she wasn’t Jim Kirk she wasn’t particularly aroused by her own body, even when it developed some rather interesting curves. Not having to shave twice a day was nice, she supposed, but that little perk was outweighed the first time she’d realized that yes, she was completely and totally female. (Starfleet had damned well better come up with a fix before the middle of next month, that’s all she was saying. Three menstrual cycles was three more than she’d ever wanted to even contemplate dealing with.) About the only solid benefit was that she no longer had to worry about inconveniently-timed arousal. But again, since she wasn’t Jim Kirk, this wasn’t as much of a selling point as it might have been.

The door chime sounded, and she set her new bottle of Saurian brandy on her desk. “Yeah. C’mon in.”

Okay, she admitted. _Sometimes_ the arousal thing was pretty damned convenient.

It had been just the three of them down on the planet when everything went all pear-shaped. Emergency beam-up procedures were enacted, and there had been the usual unsettling feeling of _nothingness_ , and then . . .

Then they had been on the ship, and instead of three men on the transporter pad, there had been three women instead.

In the normal course of things, Pavel Chekov was the sort of person you noticed. All long limbs and tightly-wound curls, pale, flawless skin and an almost terrifying intellect. He was temptation personified, but McCoy had gotten good at ignoring that temptation. The kid was only seventeen; he was unspoiled; and McCoy would be damned if he was the one who’d drag him down. His self-control should be applauded . . . in the normal course of things.

As a girl, Chekov gave new meaning to the words _jail bait_.

She was tall and coltish, as lean as ever with legs that seemed to go on forever. Her hair had grown out—though not as fast as McCoy’s had; it practically reached her shoulders now—and tumbled in pretty blonde curls around a face that was all full lips and enormous green eyes. Chekov smiled when she stepped into the room, and McCoy felt heat begin to pool between her legs.

“Hello, Dr. McCoy.” She sauntered forward, and McCoy had to make a concentrated effort to keep from tracking the sway of her hips. “Vhat are we drinking tonight?” Her eyes lit up when she saw the bottle. “Saurian brandy? You spoil me.”

“Yeah, well. Had an order come in at the last starbase we visited, that’s all. C’mon, don’t just stand around like a fool, sit your ass down. Unless you’re not planning on staying?”

Chekov sat so quickly she nearly missed the chair entirely and smiled winsomely up at the older woman. “There. I am sitting. Now, are you going to join me, Doctor?”

McCoy snorted. “Yeah, kid, I’m joinin’ you.” She took the other chair and uncorked the bottle. “And I thought you were gonna start calling me Len.”

“Da.” Chekov picked up his glass and raised an eybrow in an entirely too-Spock-like way. “And I thought that you had agreed to call me ‘Pavel’ instead of _kid_.”

“Yeah. Well.” McCoy took a drink, savoring the slow burn of the brandy on her tongue. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t really look much like a ‘Pavel’ anymore.”

Chekov made a humming sound at the back of her throat that made McCoy shift uneasily in her seat. “What about ‘Pasha’, then?” She tilted her head. “Do I look more like a ‘Pasha’?”

“Um . . .” McCoy cleared her throat. “Guess I could handle that.” _Oh, yeah, I could handle Pasha all right_ —he cut that train of thought off as quickly as he could and knocked back the rest of his brandy. “So, _Pasha_ , how’s your little after-school project going?”

“Very well,” she answered excitedly. “Mr. Spock thinks that we are very close to replicating the atmosphere around Diadem III, and once we do it will only be a matter of time before we manage to recreate the specific disturbance that interfered with out transporters.”

“Right.” McCoy looked at his empty glass. “Only a matter of time. Don’t suppose any of you has an idea how _much_ time we’re talking about here?”

“Perhaps another month; two at the outside, I think.”

“Great. Just another month or two of the sex-change operation from hell.”

“I am sorry,” Chekov said quietly, and McCoy frowned.

“What the hell for?”

“For not finding an answer for you more quickly. It is hard for you, being trapped in that body.”

“It’s hard on all of us,” McCoy muttered, pouring another drink. “Well. Maybe not Jim. But I’m sure you’re not exactly having an easy time of it.”

“I suppose not.” Chekov’s smile was quieter this time. “It took some time to get used to running like this. Even with so small a chest as mine.”

McCoy’s eyes drifted down against her will, and her mouth went dry. That chest looked just fine to her; small, high breasts, just the right size to cup in one hand . . . she wrenched her gaze back up. “How many times do I have to tell you? You shouldn’t be running, anyway. It’s bad for your joints.”

“Yes, so you keep saying. But I must keep in shape somehow.” Her gaze flicked over McCoy’s body and back up, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “How do you keep fit?”

“Swimming. You should try it.”

The image of Chekov—of Pasha—in a swimsuit, curls dripping down her back, water sliding over soft, pale skin . . . McCoy’s entire body went hot, and she was still trying to find words when Chekov leapt to her feet.

“I should go,” she said, no longer looking McCoy in the eye. “I have taken up too much of your time already.”

“What?” McCoy rose as well, feeling like the world’s biggest lech but unable to stand the thought of Chekov leaving like this. “No. I invited you here, didn’t I?”

“Why did you, Len?” Troubled green eyes darted up to hers and then away. “I come every week, and we drink, and we talk. We never did before.” McCoy watched her throat move as she swallowed heavily. “Before we changed.”

“Well.” McCoy’s face settled into a frown. “I guess . . . I mean, it just finally seemed like we’d have something to talk about and—”

She was cut off by a pair of soft lips against hers, slender fingers cupping her face with unexpected strength. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ended. Chekov leapt back, her face lobster-red.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Len . . . Dr. McCoy, I’m so sorry, please. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She fisted her hands in her hair and began to pace in short, sharp circles. “I know that you don’t think of me . . . and I never wanted to press you for anything; I was happy just to speak with you, to work with you. And now . . . I am not normally even . . . with girls, I have never . . . but suddenly I can’t stop noticing the, and more than ever _you_ . . .” She stared back at McCoy, her eyes lost and helpless. “Why? Why am I feeling this way?”

Heart racing, McCoy took a deep, shaky breath. “Well. I could say something about the majority of our genes remaining untouched by what happened, and our reactions to pheromones just being realigned. Or . . .”

“Or?” Chekov prompted.

This time it was McCoy who surged forward and brought their mouths together, one hand locked around the back of Chekov’s neck to hold her in place. A soft moan slipped past the younger woman’s lips, and McCoy took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, to chase the taste of brandy that lingered on Chekov’s tongue. Her free hand drifted down to cup the slender flare of a hip. Their bodies drifted together, and it was strange at first to feel her breasts pressed against another person. Then Chekov’s fingertips brushed against his collarbone and skimmed down, and suddenly _strange_ turned to _yes please more more more_.

She wasn’t sure how they went from fully-clothed to naked and horizontal on the narrow stretch of McCoy’s bed. Her world had narrowed down to long, smooth limbs beginning to grow damp with sweat, sandy lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, sweet lips swollen with kisses and open on gasping, panting breaths. She had been right about the younger woman’s breasts; they fit perfectly in her palms, nipples rising up to meet her tongue as it swept across the dusky rose flesh. The ends of her hair trailed down Chekov’s sides, making her squirm with breathless laughter as McCoy trailed her mouth down over a perfect flat stomach.

“Pasha,” she breathed against one hip, nipping lightly at tender skin. “So beautiful.”

“Len,” Chekov gasped. “Please. Please, I want . . .”

“What do you want, baby?” She reached down to bend Chekov’s knee, raising her leg to press soft, lingering kisses to her inner thigh. “Tell me, it’s yours.”

“I don’t know.” She wriggled under McCoy’s touch, seeking . . . something. “I don’t know, I just need . . .”

“Yeah. Okay, shh.” McCoy leaned up to kiss her again, nibbling at her lower lip as she slipped a hand between the girl’s thighs. Her fingers found damp curls, and they moaned together as she rubbed gently. “So good,” she panted against her mouth. “So wet for me. Are you all right?”

Chekov gave a keening little noise and nodded frantically. “ _More._ ”

“All right, angel. Just hold on to me, I’ve got you.”

She nudged Chekov’s legs farther apart and slid a single careful finger inside. The younger woman’s eyes flew open wide, and her mouth dropped open on a silent gasp. McCoy chuckled against her jaw and kissed her way down the slim column of her throat.

“Feels good?” Chekov made a desperate little noise and nodded again. McCoy added a second finger and began to rub her thumb against her clit. “I want you to feel good. Want you to just come apart.”

Chekov’s fingers were tangled in McCoy’s hair, holding her close while her other hand fisted in the sheets. With no warning she reached out and grabbed the older woman by the waist, hauling her up until their bodies settled together.

“You, too.” Though it looked like it took some effort, Chekov managed to focus her eyes on McCoy’s as her hands roamed greedily over her body. “I want you to feel good; so good you never want anyone else.” She reached up to fondle a breast, and McCoy’s hips bucked when clever fingers found her nipple. They both groaned at once. “Yes,” Chekov gasped, “that, more.”

“All right,” McCoy panted, trying to rearrange limbs as their hands slipped and slid over sweat-slick skin. “Just let me . . . hold on, just let me . . .”

She finally managed to maneuver their legs so that they were pressed tightly together; she glanced down, and just the sight of dark brown curls tangling with blonde ones nearly sent her over the edge. Experimentally, she rocked her hips . . . and saw stars.

“Yebat’ mne,” Chekov whimpered, hands grasping McCoy’s ass and pulling her closer. “Pozhaluĭsta, trudnyee, mne nuzhno bol’she, tak horosho.”

McCoy didn’t have the first damn idea what it meant, but it didn’t matter. It sounded beautiful, and filthy, and she needed more of that feeling. She began to grind them together, moving harder and faster with every broken word that spilled from Chekov’s lips. She could feel the pleasure building at the base of her spine, throbbing between her legs, and as the body beneath her stiffened and arched, as tremors shot through those long limbs and made green eyes go glazed and dim, McCoy let go as well.

It took her some time to remember how to think again; when she was able to process anything beyond the way her entire body seemed to be humming, she opened her eyes to find that the two of them were still tangled together.

“You know,” Chekov said, her eyes still closed, “you have not made me especially eager to switch us back.”

“Why’s that?” McCoy asked, lips brushing against the younger woman’s temple.

“Because then this will not happen anymore.” Her eyes opened at last, and she tilted her head to face McCoy. “You will not want me when I am back the way I used to be.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” McCoy chided gently. “I’ve wanted you for the better part of a year; why the hell do you think I always made Nurse Chapel do your physicals?” She could feel the other woman’s heart thumping hard against her, and lifted a hand to cover it. Copping a feel at the same time was just a fortuitous bonus. “I’ve wanted you in every body you’ve been in. I’d start in on all the reasons we shouldn’t do this, but I can’t actually remember them right now. Maybe when it’s been longer than ten minutes since brain-melting orgasm.”

“Len,” Chekov protested, her face flaming red, and McCoy laughed in delight.

“Damn, you’re sexy when you blush.” She leaned forward to nuzzle at soft lips. “Makes you even prettier.”

“Stop it.”

“Like a little china doll,” she teased.

“Vy govorite slishkom mnogo,” Chekov muttered, and kissed her back.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s sexy, too. What does that mean? And the stuff you were saying earlier?”

“You learn Russian,” Chekov said. She slid a hand down McCoy’s side. “And then you will understand when I beg you to fuck me.”

Heat flared through her body again, and McCoy smiled. “Guess there are worse reasons to learn,” she said, and rolled them over again.


End file.
